Brass Monkey
by Fluffy-CSI
Summary: WIP, chapter 3 posted. I wanted to do a GSR story featuring Brass, so here's my attempt. Rumors are dangerous things, you know...
1. Rumor says

Brass had always thought that office romance was stupid. It inevitably led to fights, taking sides, and - usually - someone quitting their job. He wasn't keen on seeing all that go on among his friends.

No one would ever have tried to label him a "romantic." Definitely not a "ladies' man." Probably not even "sensitive." He knew all that. Somehow, though, he always seemed to find himself closeted with someone or other who was having relationship problems. Not voluntarily, on his part, and often not consciously, on the other person's part, but it just kept happening.

He'd grown fond of all of them over the years they'd worked together, and to tell the truth, he still hadn't managed to shake that paternalistic instinct that had come with being their supervisor. Five years out of the job, and he was still trying to keep CSI running smoothly! But still, no matter how paternal he_ felt_, he was probably the last person in the building who should be dispensing advice. He hadn't had a date in god knows how long and his own daughter only called him once a year. He wasn't exactly Ward Cleaver, so why did he keep trying?

He sighed. Maybe he'd been in the game too long. Maybe he was losing perspective. After all, all of CSI, including Brass in his secondary position of liaison, had been working frantically for the past few weeks. He'd only had one night off, completely page-free, in all that time. He knew for a fact that Grissom hadn't even managed that, and he suspected that Sara hadn't either. It was difficult to keep yourself balanced when the best you could do was catch an hour of sleep hunched over a layout table between cases.

It was also hard to pay attention to things like, say, _other people_ when you had your head perpetually stuck over a microscope or under a surgical mask. That's what he'd figured, anyway, when he first noticed the new tension appear in the night shift. It couldn't be anything else, because he'd have known about it if something had happened to cause it.

Work was finally starting to slow down now, though, but the tension...well, it was still there. It made him nervous, and if it made _him_, who spent comparatively little time with the team, nervous, he didn't want to imagine what it was doing to everyone else. It also made him antsy, and when he got antsy, well, he did things like what he was doing now: sitting in his office with the door open, watching for Sara to pass so he could grab her. It wasn't so much her romantic life that he worried about when it came to Sara, though. She was on the bleeding edge of burnout, had been for over a year, and he'd had his eye on her for almost that long.

He knew what burnout felt like. He knew what feeling unappreciated and unloved felt like. He also knew what taking up alcohol as a solution could do to a person. It hadn't taken long for him to see those things in her and start trying to think of a way to fix them. He wanted to help her climb out of this hole she was in. There was just something vulnerable about her that made him want to give her all the fatherly advice he could impart, to protect her as much as he could.

He'd already tried to talk to her about the drinking. To put it kindly, she hadn't been interested. He was pretty sure he'd insulted her by initiating that discussion, which wasn't at all what he'd been aiming for. Ah, but now he'd refined his technique. He wouldn't jump on her about her emotional issues; instead he would draw her fire by starting with a mention of Grissom. It was a foolproof way to get her attention, and if he kept on his toes he might be able to segue from there neatly into a talk about her problems.

Doubtful. More likely she'd be storming out in less than ten minutes, furious with him for interfering.

But he'd keep trying. Once he was sure she wouldn't self-destruct, she could go do whatever she wanted, but until then he was going to keep pushing her.

Finally! He caught a glimpse of her quick-stepping past his office and called, "Sara!"

He watched her back up and look at him quizzically. "Yeah?"

"You got a minute?"

Her face instantly took on a look of suspicion - which he had expected - but she said, "What for?" Fanning out the file folders she was holding, she added, "I've got a lot of pressing stuff tonight."

"Ten minutes is all I need," he told her with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Come on in."

She looked both ways down the hallway before stepping into his office. "Is this really that important?"

"Your shift's over, Sara," he reminded her. "Anything that's 'pressing' right now can wait. Sit."

She sat, crossing her legs and swinging the top one nervously. "Ok, I'm sitting. What's up?"

"How've things been with the team lately?"

"You know we've been working like mad. Did you really need to hijack me to ask?"

He shook his head. "Not work-wise. I'm talking about people-wise."

Beetling her brows, she said, "Huh?"

"People. Your team, those hyperactive people who run around picking at carpets and demanding everyone wear booties. Remember them?"

Now she looked more impatient than suspicious. "I obviously know what people are. Why did you really call me in here?"

Mentally rubbing his hands together in delight at the opening she'd given him, Brass schooled his face into a look of vague worry. "I've just been...hearing things."

"About me?" she demanded immediately.

"You, among others."

Sara sighed. "Ok," she said, leaning back in her chair, "obviously you want to lecture me. Go for it."

"Who, me?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "Well, since you asked..."

"Brass."

"Ok, ok. I've been hearing things about you and Grissom." He was pleased to see Sara's eyed widen at the mention of her supervisor's name.

"What...sort of things?" she asked, having to consciously remind herself that nothing had happened between them that could be gossiped about, anyway.

"Tension. Arguments -"

"What else is new?" she interrupted. "I thought you said this was important."

Sara wasn't as easily distracted as he'd expected. He steepled his fingers under his chin and frowned slightly, trying to decide on his next move. It took him a few seconds, but he managed to come up with something: "The stories I've heard have been about more dangerous stuff than usual. Like how people don't think you and Grissom should be working together because your fights jeopardize cases."

"What?" She shot to her feet, looking ready to do battle. "You know that's not true!"

He raised his hands helplessly. "Hey, I'm just the messenger."

"Well, go '_messenge' _whoever's spreading this shit and tell them that I'll be seeing them soon."

Uh-oh. "You don't even know who it is," he pointed out, adding in his head, _Mainly because they don't exist_.

Giving him a frighteningly cool smile, she said, "I'm an investigator, remember?"

"But, Sara -"

"Look, it's nice talking to you and all, but I've got more important things to do right now. Like hunt down the weasel who told you that. I'll see you later."

Before he could get another word out, she was gone. Brass stared at the empty hallway for a few seconds, trying to regroup. His "talk" with Sara could hardly have gone worse, and now she was on the warpath. This needed to be dealt with.

With a heartfelt sigh, he picked up the phone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You said _what_?" Grissom yelled into the phone a few minutes later. "Jim, she's having enough of a hard time _without_ worrying about some . . . phantom rumor mill!"

"I know," Brass said placatingly. "I just didn't expect her to go on the hunt before I even finished my sentence."

Glancing at the windows of his office and making sure all the blinds were drawn, Grissom removed his glasses, threw them on the desk, and put his feet up next to where they landed. "You told her a complete lie - involving _me_ - just so that . . . what? She'd stay and let you lecture her?"

"Oh, like you haven't been 'lecturing' her for five years," Brass retorted, starting to feel defensive.

"At least I haven't _lied _to her!" Grissom snapped.

There was a beat of silence before Brass responded, "You haven't?" He knew he didn't need to be more specific; Grissom had a guilty conscience.

"That's diff. . . I . . ." Grissom's voice trailed off as he tried to think of something to say that wouldn't make him look worse.

"Exactly, Pot," Brass said with a chuckle, back on even ground now. "Now, Kettle, here, has a lot of work to do. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He hung up the phone before Grissom could argue with him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sara stormed into the break room five minutes early that night and immediately directed her glare at Grissom, who had, up to then, been sitting quietly, immersed an autopsy report.

"What?" he said carefully. She looked ready to chew nails; best to keep talk to a minimum and not fight back at times like this.

She snatched her coffee mug off the counter with a jerky movement. "We," she told him, picking up the coffee pot and trying to keep her hand from shaking, "have got a problem." With only half her mug full, she put the pot back before she could drop it.

Grissom was leaning back in his chair, watching her with interest. Was she _trembling_? "A problem," he repeated, suspecting that he already knew what she was talking about. "What sort of problem? And what do you mean by 'we'?"

"There are rumors about us."

"Aren't there always?" he said with more ease than he felt.

"They're criticizing our _work _now. Not just my personal life."

"Um, Sara," Grissom began, wondering how the hell he was going to clean up Brass's mess. "Actually -" He was interrupted by Catherine's entrance. _Saved by the bell_, he thought. _Thank you, Cath!_

Catherine needed only one look at Sara's face to know she'd walked into either something very interesting or something very dangerous. Opting for caution, she quickly backed out of the room, saying, "Uh, I think I forgot my . . . uh . . . I'll be right back!"

Sara's eyes returned immediately to Grissom. "What were you about to say?"

Now wasn't the time to tell her, he decided. _And it's not just because I don't want to make her mad. Really._ "Nothing important." His heart leapt as he saw Warrick approaching. Safe! "We'll talk about this later."

"But I -"

"Later, Sara."

"_Fine_."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He dodged her for most of the night by holing up in his office, but by the time shift ended she had caught on. She appeared in his doorway, obviously on her way out, five minutes before he would have been home free. "We need to discuss this," she stated, not waiting for an invitation to enter. Sitting stiffly on one of the chairs in front of his desk, she added, "It _does_ concern you too."

"What does?" Faking ignorance worked on her occasionally; it was worth a try.

"The _rumors_. Haven't you heard about them?"

"Uh . . ." He picked up his glasses and fiddled with them, buying time.

"Grissom, are you even _listening_ to me?" she hissed.

"Uh-huh."

"Then what should we do about it?"

"I don't know what to do about -" He stopped himself just before the word "this" came out of his mouth. The last thing he needed was to remind her of that painful encounter.

Sara crossed her legs and stared at him curiously. "Why don't you care about this? You usually protect your privacy at all costs." She sighed and uncrossed her legs, beginning to fidget. "I don't understand you."

"Well, the rumors about tension," he said hesitantly. "They're pretty much . . . true, aren't they?"

"I don't care if we're mortal enemies outside these walls, it should still have _no _bearing on our jobs."

Mortal enemies? Was that what she considered them? "You're not in any danger of being fired." Why didn't he just tell her Brass had lied? He didn't know; maybe he just wanted to keep her in his office longer.

"How do you know?"

He let out a tired sigh. "Because I'd be the one who fired you, Sara. And I have no plans to do that in the foreseeable future."

"Oh, _that's _comforting," she said sarcastically. "Talk about job security."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh? Then what did you mean?"

He started sorting the papers on his desk, buying more time. "There have been absolutely no rumbles about you or anyone else being terminated. If someone was going to be let go, I'd know."

That seemed to appease her slightly. "Gossip is destructive," she told him, "even if it doesn't lead to someone losing a job. I'm asking you again - why are you so unconcerned about this?"

Giving her a thoughtful look, he said, "Maybe I see it as an experiment. You have to admit, it would be interesting to see the results."

"I don't have to admit anything like that!" She stood up and walked to the door, then paused just before opening it. "I'm not one of your experiments, Grissom. You should remember that." With that, she was gone and Grissom was left staring open-mouthed at an empty doorway.


	2. Lampshades and recliners

Grissom called Brass as soon as he walked in his front door. Damned if he was going to get himself in trouble while making things easier for the guy who caused this in the first place!

"Did you explain it to her?" Brass asked when he picked up the phone, not bothering to say hello.

"I tried," Grissom said, then let his voice trail off suggestively. He wanted to drag this out, torture Brass as much as possible.

"...And?"

"She ran out before I could explain it to her. I'm not doing that again, Jim. She hates me enough as it is, I don't need you giving her more reasons to."

Brass was shocked. Grissom was an effective guy; when he'd asked him to speak to Sara, it hadn't really occurred to him that Grissom would fail. Sara almost always listened to him. "You must have said something wrong to her," he accused, trying to think of a reason, any reason, to blame this on someone else.

"Dammit, when was the last time I said something _right _to her? I'm not doing this again, I told you. If you want her to know the truth, you call her up and tell her."

"But Gil..."

"Do it, Jim. I'm going to check with her tonight, and if you haven't done it by then, I'm marching her over to your office and standing there while you apologize."

Brass gulped. "At least give me a hint on how to phrase it. You know her better than I do!"

"Do it," Grissom repeated, and gently lowered the phone into its cradle.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sara had just changed into sweats in preparation for a few hours of relaxation when her doorbell rang. Her first thought was _Grissom!_ but she immediately discounted that. What reason could he have to come to her apartment? Unless it was to apologize...which he never did.

With a sigh, she stood up and shoved her hair back from her face. "Coming!" she called to whoever was on the other side of the door. Whoever they were, they were currently knocking in a jaunty rhythm. She checked the peephole. Brass? Was he here to deliver another lecture? She swung open the door.

"You're only allowed one lecture a week, Detective, and you've already hit your limit."

Brass shuffled his feet, aware that Sara had not invited him in, as custom usually dictated, and was, in fact, blocking the doorway. "No lecture this time," he told her with a weak smile. "Actually, I'm here for an apology."

"You're _what_?" she said incredulously. "There's no way in hell I'm apologizing to you. I didn't do anything wrong! Why is everyone jumping down my throat today, anyway?" She would have continued on in that vein, but Brass distracted her by raising his hands in surrender.

"You've got it backwards! I'm apologizing to _you_, not the other way around."

Sara blinked. "Oh. Uh . . . apologizing for what, exactly?"

"Look, can I come in? Your hallway, though clean, isn't exactly the kind of place I like to hang out."

She shook her head. "No. First you tell me what's going on. _Then _maybe I'll let you in."

He sighed, mentally cursing Grissom for not taking care of this already. "I came to apologize."

"You already said that."

Crossing his arms, he gave her a sour look. "I'm trying to be nice here, and I gotta tell you, you're making it difficult."

She shrugged. "I'm a difficult girl. Now explain."

He took in a deep breath, let it out, and spoke: "Well, you know what I told you last night? About the rumors?"

She nodded and waited for him to go on.

"It wasn't exactly . . . true."

Sara's eyebrows shot up and her eyes narrowed. "Which part, exactly, wasn't true?" Her voice was had taken on a dangerous, silky quality.

"Mostly . . . well no, not mostly. All of it."

She stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"There isn't any rumor," he said, hoping to get through the rest of this quickly. "I made it up."

A stunned look spread over her face as she began to understand. "Why?" she asked, eyes wide. "Why would you do that to me? Did I do something to _you_?"

He hated this. "No, you didn't do anything. I, uh, was actually just trying to keep you in my office so I could talk to you about . . . things."

"You were going to give me another lecture on alcohol," she translated.

"Uh, well, yeah." He looked pointedly at his watch. "Oh damn, look at that. I've got to get out of here. I'm really sorry, Sara." He jogged down the hallway and, just before going through the stairwell door, he looked back and said tentatively, "I'll see you at work tonight?"

Sara slammed her door and stumbled to the couch, flopping down on it with a loud groan. Did he have any idea how much he had hurt her? She'd spent a whole day thinking that people thought that she . . . and Grissom . . .!

Finally, she just threw back her head and screamed.

Feeling a little better for having got that out, she closed her eyes and tried to think. Had Brass mentioned this lie to anyone else? Was there now an _actual _rumor starting?

Then something dawned on her. Grissom had known what the "rumors" were about before she told him. _He was in on this._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A furious pounding on his door roused Grissom from the troubled sleep he'd fallen into on his recliner. Cracking open one eye, he wondered who in the world would bang on his door in the middle of the "night."

"This better be good," he muttered, rubbing his neck where his awkward sleeping position had left it stiff. "What?" he growled when he pulled open the door.

Sara was standing on the front stoop. "I woke you up?" she said.

Sara? What the hell...? "You should be asleep too," he managed with a vague nod. "You have to work tonight."

"I might be providing one of the cases tonight."

That got his attention. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said," she began, advancing on him without warning, "that I might be providing one of the cases tonight. Depending on what you have to say for yourself in the next five minutes or so."

He automatically backed up a step, but he was still too drowsy to try to puzzle out what she had just said. "In," he ordered, motioning her in the door. "If you're going to murder me, don't do it in front of the neighbors."

"Fine." She followed him through the foyer, waiting for him to say something - to ask what the hell she was doing here.

He didn't. He just sat down in the recliner he'd vacated only a minute ago and looked at her expectantly. When she didn't move to sit down anywhere, he shrugged and waited.

After thirty seconds, she lost patience with the staring contest. "Are you going to ask me why I showed up at your house for no apparent reason?"

"I was considering it," he acknowledged, running a hand through his rumpled hair. "But are you going to tell me, if I ask?"

"Why don't _you _tell _me_," she said acidly. "I had a visitor tonight. Want to take a guess as to who it was?"

He finally made the connection. Brass had talked to her, and she'd figured out that Grissom had been gone along with it. Damn! "Brass," he said tiredly. "I told him to talk to you."

"Would you like to explain to me why you and he thought it would be a good idea to feed me a complete lie? Maybe you thought I wasn't getting enough stress in my life?"

"_I _didn't do it! Jim made it all up. I had no idea he'd even talked to you until he called me when you left."

" 'After the fact' still counts, Grissom," she pointed out. "And why did he call you?"

"He may be slow, but he's not stupid. He could tell he'd screwed up and upset you."

She shook her head disbelievingly and, refusing to be distracted, repeated, "And he called you . . . why?"

Grissom sighed. "He wanted me to deal with you."

"But you didn't. Instead, you continued to lie to me."

"I -"

"And you told me you were looking at it as 'an interesting experiment'."

She hid it well, but he could see that the wound had cut deep. "I'm sorry," he said helplessly.

"I don't understand you, Grissom. _Why _did you have to lie to me? Brass asked you to tell me the truth. I wouldn't have blamed you; you would have been delivering the truth about something that wasn't your fault. Instead, you played along when I talked about it." Her face hardening, she asked, "Was it _fun _for you, to put something over on pathetic, workaholic Sara? Was that it?"

"No! No, it wasn't 'fun' for me. I . . . I just . . ." He sighed. "I just didn't want to upset you."

"Well, you did."

"I can see that. And I apologize, really. It wasn't well done of me."

His acknowledgement of this threw her off-balance. She had come to his house prepared to rant for as long as it took, knowing that Grissom rarely admitted he was wrong when it came to dealing with people. She hadn't taken into account the possibility that he might actually apologize with little prompting. Now what was she supposed to do? After a few seconds, she just nodded to him and said, "Ok."

Grissom blinked. " 'Ok'? That's all you're going to say? I'm apologizing to you, Sara!"

"I know," she said, faking a calm she didn't feel. "And thank you for that." There was no reason for her to stay here now that he'd apologized, she reminded herself. If she hung around, it would just be awkward. Giving him what she hoped was a casual, friendly smile, she headed for the door, saying, "So I guess I'll just . . ."

"You don't have to go," he said quickly, trailing behind her. "Really."

"You know that would just make things weird," she said quietly. "I should go. I'll see you at work." Reaching for the doorknob, she purposely turned her face away from him.

Before she could turn the knob, he covered her hand with his own. "Stay," he said, trying not to sound like he was pleading. "For a couple of minutes," he added when he saw her hesitate. "You can leave if things get 'weird'."

Slowly, she pulled her hand out from under his and returned it to her side. Without turning to face him, she said, "What for?"

That threw Grissom. He didn't have a reason to give her; he was operating mostly on impulse at this point. "Well . . ." She stiffened at the sound of his voice, he noticed. Not good. "Because I'd like to . . . talk to you."

"Sorry, but I'm not up for another lecture, from Brass _or _you." She reached for the doorknob again.

Not giving himself time to think about it, he put his hands on her waist and gently pulled her back into the foyer. "Please."

She jumped at his touch and spun around to meet his eyes, forcing him to move his hands. "You just want to talk? No lecture or questions about my . . . problems?"

"None."

Letting out a breath, she allowed herself to relax a little. "Ok. For a few minutes."

"Good," he said, holding in a sigh of relief. "Come back to the living room?"

She reluctantly followed him back into the room, her mind working furiously the whole time. Sitting down on the leather sofa he motioned her to, she jumped right into the heart of things. "What do you want to talk about?"

Grissom thought about that for a second. What _did _he want to talk to her about? "I really am sorry," was all he could come with at the moment.

Sara wasn't impressed. "You already said that. And I said it's ok."

"I know. I just wanted to say it again, because now that I've talked to you, I can see that you're hurting."

"I'm not hurting," she said reflexively. She had a lot of experience denying things when it came to Grissom. After five years, it was starting to come naturally.

"You came to my house in the middle of the day, more furious than I've ever seen you be at someone who's not a criminal. Either we hurt you, or you're about to go 'Ed Gein' and I'm just your first visit of the day."

His mention of the serial killer startled a laugh out of her. Eyeing him appraisingly, she said slowly, "Now that you mention it, you might make a good lampshade."

_Only Sara,_ he thought. _Only Sara would not only catch the reference, but turn it back on me_. "Not bad," he told her. "But don't change the subject. We were talking about how Brass and I hurt you."

"Brass could be a wastebasket," she said, not wanting to return to the real subject of discussion. "Actually, two wastebaskets."

"Sara, come on. Talk to me."

She looked at him like he'd grown a second head. Since when did he invite confidences? "You're not interested in what I have to say, believe me."

"Yes, I am." Catching her dubious look, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Really."

"Since when?"

"Since now," he said firmly. "Now, can we please focus?"

"On what?"

"On you, to start. I told you that I could tell I'd upset you; you denied it," he summarized. "I responded that I could tell from your demeanor that you'd been hurt."

"And I deny that too," she said flatly.

He wasn't getting anywhere. Time to mentally regroup. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Unprepared for the sudden subject change, she just stared blankly at him for a few seconds. "Coffee?"

"You _do _drink coffee, right?" He couldn't possibly get such a small thing about her wrong . . . could he?

"Yes, I drink coffee. You know that. You just caught me by surprise. I was expecting you to go on telling me how I was feeling."

She scored a point with that one, and Grissom winced imperceptibly. "Well then, this is good. I'll make coffee and _you _can start telling me how you were feeling, instead."

"Grissom!"

"Fine. For the duration of the coffee drinking, I won't bring up what happened today," he allowed. "But no fair dragging the drinking out for hours."


	3. From, Grissom

Thirty minutes later, Sara was curled up on Grissom's couch, still cradling her coffee cup. Grissom, who couldn't figure out how she was managing to stay so calm in such a tense situation, was pacing the room, glancing at her every few laps to see if she'd finished yet. "It doesn't take half an hour to drink eight ounces of coffee, Sara!" he finally burst out.

"It does when I'm drinking it."

Pausing in his trek, he gave her a dubiouslook. "And that's why I've seen you down a cup of coffee in 3.2 seconds at work?"

She shrugged. "Different situations, different guidelines."

"Oh?" He broke out of the circle he'd been pacing and approached her. "And exactly what are the guidelines for this situation?"

With a sigh, Sara finished the last sip of her drink and said, "Procrastination."

"That's it?"

"You got a better idea?" Holding out the mug, she said, "Besides, you win. I finished the coffee."

He perked up. Grabbing the mug before she could try to pull it away, he set it on the breakfast bar without turning around and said, "Good. Then we can talk."

Sara rolled her eyes. "We can talk, but honestly, I don't know what you're so interested in. You already apologized and I forgave you."

"Well for one thing, I'd like to know why we're both feeling so awkward right now." He resumed his pacing again, although now he was looking at her almost constantly instead of just stealing occasional glances.

"Uh . . . do you think it could have something to do with the fact that we've never even managed a civil non-work-related conversation that lasted more than thirty seconds, and yet I'm now sitting in your house?"

Grissom stared at her. "We have too had non-work discussions!"

"Oh yeah? Name one."

"When you told me about your parents," he said challengingly.

"You were only concerned with how what I was feeling about my past would affect my ability to work."

He stopped pacing again and stared at her disbelievingly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, come on. Don't start trying to pretend you're Mr. Sensitive now, after all this time. You know you wouldn't have touched that topic with a ten-foot pole if you thought you could avoid it."

"I didn't . . ." he stammered. Sitting down on the opposite end of the couch from her, he tried again: "That's not true." He forced himself not to look at her.

"Of course it is." She shrugged carelessly. "I'm fully aware of your aversion to anything related to emotion. Don't try to fake it now."

"I don't have an aversion to emotion."

"Oh, so it's just an aversion to me, then?" She crossed her arms in front of her and reminded herself to be careful with what she said.

"I don't have an aversion to you, either." He studied her stiff form. "Why would you think I don't like you?"

Sara's only answer was a snort of derision.

"I like you," he insisted. "Very much. So can we just . . . move on from the 'Grissom hates me' excuse?"

Sara turned that over in her mind. He "liked" her "very much." What did that mean? Unable to think of something that wouldn't embarrass either of them, she settled for saying, "I forgot what the original question was. What are you asking me?"

Grissom sighed. He'd known she was stubborn, but he'd never realized she had such a good talent for denial, too. "I asked why we feel so awkward sitting here like this."

"Oh, right." She shrugged. "I don't know about why _you're _feeling it, but for me it's because, like I said, I know you don't want to be doing this."

"Then would it help if I told you that there's nowhere else I'd prefer to be right now?"

"Not really," she said matter-of-factly.

"Then I'm out of ideas," he said, annoyed in spite of himself. "Maybe you _should _just go, like you said before."

She tried her hardest to prevent it, but she flinched at his words. "Ok. Yeah," she said, standing up, "maybe you're right."

She had expected him to say something, to try to stop her, but Grissom stayed in his seat and just watched her. Feeling slapped down, Sara muttered, "Thanks for the coffee," and nearly ran out the door.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Grissom's cell rang later that afternoon. He was wide awake; in fact, he had been awake, unable to quiet his agitated thoughts, since Sara left. When his phone chirped, he snatched it off the table eagerly, hoping to see Sara's number in the caller ID window. Unfortunately, the window was displaying something completely different.

"I'm not in the mood, Jim," he warned his caller. "What do you want?"

Brass, who wasn't feeling terribly human, either, replied, "Neither am I. I just wanted to know if you've talked to Sara."

"She was over here a few hours ago," Grissom admitted, slumping in his chair. Why did Brass have to rub salt in the wound, even if he was doing it without knowing it?

"Did it go any better for you than it went for me when I went to her place?"

"Worse."

"Ouch. I can only imagine."

Grissom sighed. He had planned to avoid remembering today's disaster for as long as possible. "Did you want something else? Or did you just call to ask about Sara?"

"Well, I was thinking," Brass said. "Do you think we should . . . do something for her? As an apology?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know!" Brass exclaimed. "I don't know how to handle her. Didn't you send her flowers once or something?"

"A plant, yes. Are you suggesting we send her another one now?"

"Well, it worked last time."

"I guess it did." Instinct told him that it wouldn't work as well this time, but he needed to do _something, _and he certainly didn't have a better idea. "Do you want to place the order, or should I?"

"You do it," Brass ordered. "You have . . . _experience_." Grissom, even without being able to see his friend, knew Brass was smirking.

"Very funny. Does a card come with the flowers?"

"You mean you don't know?"

Feeling silly, Grissom admitted, "I know there was a card with the last plant, but I don't remember if that's the default or if I had to ask for it."

"Well, have them put a card on this one. Write something funny on it."

"Uh, Jim," Grissom said warily, "I don't _do _funny."

"Well, you better do it today, unless you actually _enjoy_ having Sara not speaking to you."

Grissom sighed heavily. "I'll try. See you tonight."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sara's depression had been festering all afternoon, and by the time she arrived at work she was less than pleased about having to do something other than just lie on her couch under a soft blanket. She had come home furious, but as the day had passed, her anger had drained away, leaving behind only the feeling of rejection that comes with being the butt of a joke. Now she had to face Grissom and Brass at work and pretend it didn't pain her to work with them.

She slunk into the building only forty-five minutes early, which would have been a sure sign that something was eating her if anyone had been there to notice it. As it was, though, she passed only a few techs and one member of the day shift on her walk to the locker room, none of whom knew her schedule well enough to make the connection.

She spent fifteen minutes cleaning her locker, squaring every corner, shaping the folds of the jumpsuit that hung off the hook inside, and carefully rearranging the shoes and jumbled notes that covered the floor of the locker. By the time she was done, she felt marginally happier. At least she could make _something _in her life better, even if it _was_ only a locker filled with junk. Just as she was about to slam the locker door, she caught sight of her face reflected in the mirror that clung to its door. She looked pale, which wasn't really unusual, but today she also looked . . . worn. The word _haggard _came to mind when she fished for a way to describe what she saw.

With a groan, she forced herself to close the locker. She _really _didn't need to be looking at something that just made her feel worse than she already did.

Sitting down on the bench that separated the two banks of lockers, she let her head drop into her hands. Even her skin felt wrong; it was rough where it should have been smooth. _You need to deal with this, Sara_, she told herself. _Because in half an hour, five more people are going to come into this building and you're going to have to talk to them and work with them without whining about how they hurt your feelings_.

She hated that the voice in her head was right, but it was. She simply couldn't afford more than a few minutes of this crippling self-pity today. She already looked bad enough to many of the lab bigwigs; she didn't need to add "catatonic"to their list of "Things Wrong with Sara Sidle."

With a sigh, she pushed herself off the bench and stood up. She should at least go to the break room if she was going to just sit and mope.

When she walked into the break room, she immediately noted the huge basket of flowers sitting on the counter. Wondering which day-shifter had acquired such an ardent admirer, she took advantage of the empty room and indulged her curiosity by taking a closer look. The bouquet was comprised mainly of white flowers that she tentatively identified as chrysanthemums, but spaced throughout the sea of white were blossoms of a shockingly bright pink-yellow. The overall effect seemed, to her, to suggest flashes of something good, lost in a bland life.

She noticed that a card was almost buried in the flowers. Glancing surreptitiously around her to make sure no one was watching, she slipped the card out of its miniature envelope and flipped it open. To her surprise, what she found was not a message of romance, but an apology:

_To the one we hurt,_

_Bittersweet blossoms and white chrysanthemums symbolize truth. In this arrangement, they symbolize the truth we owed to you but didn't provide. Please accept these flowers as part of our apology and our promise to never again hide from you the truth you deserve._

_Sincerely,_

_Two contrite lawmen_

No names in the entire note, Sara realized. Only "the one we hurt" and "two contrite lawmen." Was it directed at her? Her first impression was that it was - after all, how many women in the lab could have had "truth" issues with two of the lab's men in the past day or so - but on the heels of that thought was the realization that such an eloquently worded message was unlikely to have come from either of the two men who'd hurt her. She didn't think Brass could turn such a smooth phrase if he wanted to, and while Grissom probably was capable of it, she knew from his experience that cards that came with his flowers were minimalistic. But still, that voice in her head insisted that she should accept reality and realize that the bouquet _was_ for her and that they were making a determined effort to apologize.

Unsure of what to believe, she lowered herself onto the couch and, gazing sightlessly at the flowers, fell into deep thought.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Catherine arrived fifteen minutes early, as was her habit, and detoured to the locker room only long enough to unload the sweatshirt she was wearing before heading for the break room and its coffee supply.

She didn't necessarily expect to be the first into the room - often Sara or Grissom was already hard at work at the long table - but she was startled today by the scene she walked in on. An enormous flower arrangement dominated the room from its place between the sink and the coffee machine, and she stared in amazement at it for a few seconds before even realizing that someone else was in the room.

When she pulled her attention away from the flowers for a moment, she spotted Sara curled up against the arm of the couch. It was an unusual position for her, since Sara was usually a sit-up-straight kind of girl, but what made it even weirder was that she wasn't asleep. Her eyes were completely open, but she didn't seem to have registered Catherine's entrance. Slightly worried, Catherine crossed the room to where she was sitting and shook her shoulder. "Sara?"

Sara, startled out of her reverie, jumped and muffled a scream. "Catherine!" she finally managed. "When did you get here?"

"I've been here a few minutes," the blonde told her, heading for the coffee pot now that she knew her co-worker was alive and well. "Did you see these flowers?" she asked excitedly as she filled her mug.

"Yeah," Sara muttered uncomfortably. "They were here when I got in."

"Is there a card? Do you know who they're for?" Stirring a teaspoon of sugar into her drink, she turned to face Sara, eager to work out this puzzle.

Sara just shrugged. "There's a card, but no names."

"You're kidding! What's the card say?" Without waiting for Sara to answer, she snatched the card out of the envelope and read it.

"Ooh, mysterious," she said when she'd read the whole thing. "A mystery woman and two mystery men." Looking back at Sara, she added, "Do you know who it is?"

"Which one of them?"

"Any of them."

"No," Sara said firmly. "I think maybe it's a day shift thing."

Catherine tapped her chin with one finger and sighed. "You're probably right. God knows night shift doesn't have any drama bad enough to cause _this_."

"Mmm," Sara grunted, returning to her thoughts.

Unfortunately, Sara's time for introspection was over for the night. Only a few seconds later, the other woman interrupted her thoughts yet again - this time with a shout of "Grissom!"

Sara's head shot up and she prayed that she'd misheard what Catherine said, but Grissom was, indeed, approaching the room from the hallway. _Oh god. How the hell am I supposed to act now?_ she thought frantically. She decided to settle for not speaking unless she had to.

"Evening," Grissom said casually to the two women, trying not to be obvious about how closely he was watching Sara.

"Hi," Sara mumbled, looking at him for a fraction of a second before dropping her eyes again.

"Gris!" Catherine exclaimed, for once pleasing Sara with her gregariousness. "Check out the flowers - no names on the card. We're trying to figure out who the mystery threesome are."

Grissom's eyes darted to Sara, but she was staring intently at the cracked leather arm of the couch. "Uh," he said, swallowing and reminding himself to play it cool, "that's an interesting mystery, indeed."


End file.
